Still Religion
by Katie-Mariie
Summary: A birthday fic on the day the Still died. And there is HT pre-slash.


Still Religion  
  
It was a sad day, the day Frank broke The Still. All of It's friends stopped by for an hour or two to mourn It's fate and to drink the last of It's accomplishments. Oh, how much The Still gave, they said, and how little It took. They mourned that they would have no lazy drinks on hot Saturday afternoons. They mourned that they would have no casual drinks amidst all conversations. Most of all they mourned that they would have no form of alcohol what-so-ever. (That was if you didn't count Igor's yeast which tasted worst than the bread it was used for, and mind you that is a great feat.) It was a sad day, indeed.  
  
About a week later, Trapper (John) McIntre, one of the best friend of The Still, lay on his bed, drinking *water*. He mused over his new found frustration, rubbing his temples attempting to rid himself of a horrible, no good headache. He didn't know how long it had been since he had gone without sex *and* booze, but this was definetly a record breaker of some sort. Sex and booze go hand in hand. If Trapper didn't have booze he didn't have sex. You couldn't exactly invite a lady in for a nightcap when she knew you were alcohol barren. Sober and celibate, Trapper fancied.   
  
His tentmate was a different kind. Hawkeye seemed like the people who were about to freeze to death; just before they are about to die, they get all warm and content, as if they didn't know they were freezing. Hawkeye was bouncing around, singing, smiling just like when The Still was alive. Trapper thought Hawkeye would go insane without his buddy The Still, stark raving mad, ranting and bantering like usual but falling of that fine line into insanity. Oh, on the contrary. Trapper was pretty sure Hawk had gone crazy, only in a "look at the pretty flowers and the singing woodlin animals" way. That way was much worse. If someone could rant about things that were real and made sense, chances are they just needed a "rest". If they are starry-eyed and speaking of what is not there, they're not the person they once were and you're never getting them back.   
  
Trapper took a sip of his water and cursed a god he stopped believing in a long time ago. His family's god was replaced by the god that had taken many of his family. He couldn't have them both. His god and his family's god believed in different things. His god believed in the good time, the carefree time. John's family's god believed in the serious, lighting incense time. His god was easy to follow and commit to. John's family's god wanted you to do things, things Trapper never could do.   
  
Trapper sat up. He looked through the screen of his tent. Hawkeye was no where to be seen. He gingerly stood up and gulped down the rest of his *water*. He started his search for Hawk.  
  
Trap found him in the least likely of places, doing the least the least likely of thing-- in he was in the mess tent, eating. Willingly. Hawkeye-- no, not Hawkeye. Hawkeye drank, told jokes, had lots of sex with any willing partner, this new guy was not Hawkeye. He was Ben, B.F., or even Benny. The gin added a sharpness, a wit, a beautty, to Mr. Pierce. A wit that needed a whole new name. A name that means something, that encompasses all of that sharpness, wit, beauty. Hawkeye. The man inside was not Hawkeye.  
  
Trapper walked away from the mess tent and into a jittery young man. "Hey, watcha where yer goin'" They boy noticed Trapper's bars and jumped into full salute.  
  
Normally, he would have explained that saluting was out and saying hello was in, but, today Trap too damn tired. He flagged the kid off and continued his walk back to the Swamp. The kid followed. "Ah'm saurry, suh. Ah just came in tahday. They flew me in right from Kintucky. Ah'd neva been on a aeroplane bahfore..." the boy trailed on, while Trapper's plan came into production. They have hills in Kentucky. Hills and sugar.  
  
"Listen... uh..."  
  
"Wilson. Private Mahtay Wilson."  
  
"Marty, have you ever," Trapper glanced and ducked close to Marty's ear and wispered his querry.  
  
"Aw, yeah!" Marty said, a little too loudly. "My daddy and grandaddy kept themselves fed with it durin' prohibition! They had moonshine runnin' through those mountains like a mayathon! Shu beats workin' in those mines, though. S'like Papa always says, 'Coal mine, moonshine or move on down the line*.' Ah s'pose Ah 'moved on down the line' bein' ova here n'all. When Ah get back to Orgaun* runnin' moonshine won' be too keen 'cause people can just run up to the fi'e 'n' dime when they wanna taste*. Ah know how to run it though."   
  
And the plan was hatched.  
  
Marty and Trap scrounged up the medical instruments for the idol and Radar, the company clerk supplied enough "sugah", "ya-east", and other "ingreee-deeee-ahnts" to keep the idol busy for a while.   
  
Around three hours later, Trapper (John) lay on his bed, sipping *gin*. Hawkeye (Ben) was back, sleeping, being a sleepy drunk for once. Or so Trapper would tell Frank. 


End file.
